Thornhold

FOURTEEN

The ride to Summit Hall passed more swiftly than Bronwyn had anticipated. Ebenezer's blue pony, for all his disagreeable nature, had a tireless stride and a stubborn streak as wide as the dwarf's backside. Blue Devil, as Ebenezer aptly named the beast, would not concede the pace to Bronwyn's swifter mare, and he trotted along as if challenging the horse to match him.

Shopscat came along with them, sometimes perched on the pack horse, sometimes taking wing and flying in wide circles overhead. "Why the raven?" Ebenezer wanted to know. "You're looking to scare off shoplifters out here?"

He gestured to the wide expanse of wilderness about them. This was their second day of hard travel. They had forded the Dessarin River early that morning and were now following the Dessarin Road north. The day before, the path had followed several small villages and outlying farms, and riders and caravans waved a friendly salute as they passed. Today they had seen only two other bands of travelers, and both of those early that morning. But for the path itself, this place had little sign of habitation. The trees over much of the road were dense and tall enough to meet overhead. The summer shade would be pleasant, but Bronwyn was just as glad that the trees were still lightly clad with buds and leaflets of golden green. When fully leafed, the trees would provide ample cover for bandits and predators.

"Why the raven?" she echoed. "Sometimes he carries messages back to Alice. Why the pack horse?"

Ebenezer shrugged. "Habit. Never know when you'll find something worth hauling to market."

She chuckled. "Now you're sounding like a treasure hunter."

"Been known to do it. There's worse ways of earning your keep. Harpering being one of them, I'm guessing."

She slid a speculative look at the dwarf. His studiously casual tone proclaimed a certain interest. Dwarves, as a rule, liked to keep to themselves and avoided meddling like they avoided water, but Ebenezer was a curious sort with interests that ranged far beyond those of his kin.

"It's not really the way I earn my keep, although I suppose some people do. Being a Harper is one way to be a part of something, rather than one person alone."

"Sort of like a clan," he reasoned.

"I don't know much about the ties of fanuly, but I suppose you could say that. Look up ahead," she interrupted, pointing.

For about an hour now, the trees had been thinning out and getting smaller. To the north of them, the scene opened up, changing from forest to wild, rolling hills. In the distance, the path twisted up the side of a particularly steep knoll.

"Caves hereabouts," the dwarf proclaimed, eyeing the rocky hills to the north. "Prime goblinkin country. Orcs, mostly likely. Best to look for a defensible camp before nightfall."

They rode until twilight and set up camp on a hill not far from Summit Hall. Ebenezer found a small cave, one with a small opening so hidden that Bronwyn couldn't see it until he pulled aside the brush to show her.

"Wait a mite," he said, and then disappeared into the opening. He emerged in moments, briskly dusting off his hands. "Good cave. No orc sign, and the ceiling's too low for orcs to stand and fight. Even has a small escape tunnel. Tight fit for me, but I'll keep the stew down to two helpings tonight."

The hopeful tone in his voice brought a grin to Bronwyn's face. "Isn't it your turn to cook?"

"How about I catch the rabbits?"

"Fair enough." Bronwyn turned toward the packhorse to unload their gear. There, perched on the packs and grinning like a cream-sated tabby, was Cara.

Bronwyn fell back and yelped in surprise. "How did you get here?" she demanded.

But she knew even as she spoke. Suddenly Cara's behavior at the wail of Blackstaff Tower made perfect sense. Her reluctance to part was a ploy-a way for her to plant her gem stone in the horse's packs. Bronwyn wasn't sure whether to be amused, touched, or exasperated. She pressed her fingers to her temples as if by so doing she could still her pounding pulse.

"Well, now. This is a fine how'd-you-do," Ebenezer said, folding his arms and pretending to scowl. "Can't hardly march into that nest of paladins with the kid, seeing as how the ones in Waterdeep are so all-fired-up to keep her."

"True." Bronwyn went over to Cara and lifted her down. "You should go right back."

"Let me stay tonight," the child wheedled. "I've never slept under the stars."

Bronwyn had, so many times that she no longer gave it much thought, but it was a lovely notion when said with such wistful longing. She looked to Ebenezer. "Will you stay with her while I go in and talk to the knights?"

"And miss jaw-boning with that crowd? Glad to do it. Let's you and me set up some traps and snares around camp," he said to Cara.

Cara, it seemed, was an old hand at snares. It had been one of her tasks to tend the small rabbit traps her foster parents kept around the garden. Once she learned to adjust for size, she was tying and weighting snares as nimbly as the dwarf. "Might be you know how to cook, too?" he wanted to know.

"No, but I can make a fire. Watch." The child turned her brown eyes onto the pile of kindling Bronwyn had gathered in a stone circle. Wisps of smoke began to rise from the sticks, and then the first bright tongues of flame.

"There!" she said triumphantly, turning to an open-mouthed Bronwyn for praise. "Laeral showed me that. It's called a cantrip."

'That's very good," Bronwyn managed. She was no expert in magic, but it seemed remarkable to her that anyone, particularly a child, could learn a spell so quickly. For the first time, she wondered about Cara's mother. What elf woman had borne her and bequeathed her daughter such incredible talent? And where was she now?

Since Cara had never mentioned her mother, Bronwyn thought better than to ask. She threw some dried meat and roots into the travel pot, and by the time the first stars winked into being, the three of them were spooning up stew and listening to the piping calls of spring peepers from a nearby marsh.

The complex was impressive-more like an enclosed town than a simple holdfast-surrounded by a thick wall perhaps twenty feet high, fashioned of the sand-colored stone that abounded in the hills. Watchtowers rose from the corners, and a large keep stood at the summit of the hill. To the north, outside of the complex itself, was an old, weathered tower.

Bronwyn rode to the gate and was cordially, if distantly, received by the followers of Tyr. An elderly knight showed her to a guest chamber in one of the smaller buildings that clustered around a large, open arena of hard-packed dirt. The room was sparsely furnished, and she wondered if she would rate better quarters if the paladins knew of her heritage. But at the moment, the wisest course seemed to be to keep her identity private. She'd left her ring hidden back at the camp rather than risk alerting the paladins and losing the ring in the process.

"Good thinking," Ebenezer had approved. "Not a good thing, to be putting too much trust in humans."

It had been on the tip of Bronwyn's tongue to ask the dwarf what exactly he thought she was. But in recent weeks, she herself had not had many experiences with humankind that she could claim as proof against his cynical assessment.

A bell rang from one of the keep towers. Bronwyn heard a flurry of activity and glanced out her window. Several dozen young men were gathering in the large, open field that formed the heart of the monastery. They stripped to the waist and formed pairs, then fell to practicing with swords, staves, and a wide variety of smaller weapons. All of them fought well-impressively so. There was not a single man whom Bronwyn felt she could take in a fair fight. On the other hand, she got the impression that any one of them might be susceptible to some creatively dirty tactics.

Presently, one of the young paladins directed her to Master Laharin Goldbeard. She made her way up to his austere study and politely hailed him.

The man looked up, and his eyes widened. "Gwenidale," he breathed.

It was not a common name, and Bronwyn had heard it only once in twenty years-when Hronulf spoke of her mother.

Bronwyn had not intended to reveal her identity, but she quickly adapted her course. "Not Gwenidale, but her daughter," she said. "My name is Bronwyn."

The knight recovered his composure and came toward her, both hands outstretched. He took her hands and spread them wide, as a family friend might do to a child whose growth he wished to fondly measure. "It is you, beyond doubt. Little Bronwyn! When last I saw you, you were no more than three. By the Hammer of Tyr, child, you have become the very image of your mother."

She found herself liking Laharin and thought she would have even if he had not spoken of her mother. The man seemed to possess more warmth and kindness than any of the other paladins she had met-her father included.

"Come, sit down," he urged. "You must tell me everything. How is it that you are come home to us at last?"

"You know about the raid on my village. I was lost-sold into slavery. For years I tried to find out about my family, but I was too young to remember Recently I finally learned my father's name."

Deep sadness flooded the knight's face. "Too late," he mourned. "Your father was a great man. A good friend."

"I met him," Bronwyn admitted. "I went to Thornhold to see him."

Sudden light dawned on the knight's face. "You met with Sir Gareth in Waterdeep, did you not? I did not until this moment make the connection. Child, the brotherhood is gravely concerned about you. It was thought that you were in collusion with those who seized the fortress, that you took with you an artifact sacred to our order. How is it that you escaped the destruction?"

"There was an escape shoot. My father insisted that I take it."

"Ah. That explains all. Hronulf would know of such. The fortress has been in your family for many years."

This created an opening Bronwyn hadn't considered using until this moment. "It was Hronulf's wish that I come to you, Master Laharin. He said I should avail myself of your good council regarding the future of my family…" She let her voice trail off uncertainly and dropped her eyes as if she were overcome with maidenly modesty.

"Ah." Laharin clearly understood Hronulf's thinking. "Yes, you must find a suitable match. There are several young men here who might suit. I will think on the matter."

"In the meanwhile, can you teach me of my heritage? I am not accustomed to being the daughter of a paladin. If I am to be a mother of paladins, I should know more about the order."

"I will show you Summit Hall, and gladly!"

Laharin rose and tucked her hand into his arm. Together they strolled through the fortress. He showed her the training field, the barracks where the young men slept, stables filled with beautiful horses, armories well stocked with nearly every weapon Bronwyn could name. There was a library with some old books and maps. "You may read anything here, at your leisure," Laharin assured her. "All the stories and lore must be passed to your sons. Do you remember hearing the tales?"

"Vaguely," she admitted. "Just the shape and rhythm of them." Her eyes followed a thin boy who bustled down the hall toward them. She judged him to be a page by the cut of his tunic, and the pile of linen in his arms. He was thin and boasted a mop of bright auburn hair and a liberal sprinkling of freckles on his face and bare arms. He looked all of eight years old.

Laharin followed her gaze, noting the puzzlement in her eyes. "The lads who wish to enter Tyr's service come to us before they have reached ten winters, and stay usually ten years."

"So young…"

He gave her a look that was both stern and sympathetic. "It is the way of men to dedicate their lives to the service of Tyr. Women, I suspect, have a harder task. They must dedicate their sons."

Bronwyn murmured something suitably docile and followed the knight down a long, narrow flight of stone steps into what appeared to be a dungeon. There were a few cells, none of which were occupied, and at the end of the hall another flight leading further down. Laharin took a torch from a wall bracket and bid her follow.

"This tunnel leads to the kitchen cellars," he explained.

She pointed to a low, curved wooden door. The latch was chained and locked, rusted almost to dust. "What is that?"

"Nothing of great consequence. It is a tunnel leading to the old tower outside the walls. No one has used it for centuries."

This struck Bronwyn as very strange thinking indeed. "You are not afraid that someone will gain access to the monastery through the tower?"

"No," he said shortly. He squared his shoulders and smoothed the frown from his face with visible effort. "The tower is clearly visible from the guard tower. No one has gone in or out for centuries."

"Then why-"

"It is part of our heritage," he broke in. "Few know this story, but you should hear it. The tower once belonged to the brother of Samular, a wizard of great power known as Renwick 'Snowcloak' Caradoon. It was Samular's wish that a training monastery be built around that tower, and that it remain undisturbed for all time in honor of his brother, who died in battle as bravely as any knight."

At least, that was Samular's story, Bronwyn thought as she recalled what Khelben had told her about this place, and what she should look for. "That is an inspiring story. Samular knew the value of family," she said, arranging her face in a wide-eyed, guileless expression.

Laharin gave her an odd look, as if he was suddenly considering how much Bronwyn truly knew about her family's value. The moment passed swiftly, chased by a glimmer of self-reproach. He was not a man, Bronwyn noted with a touch of guilt, who was often or easily suspicious. She truly hated abusing his good will. On the other hand, she was not ready to turn herself and the power of her family heritage- whatever that might be-over to the order.

She spent a pleasant day with the knight, but begged off dinner by claiming travel weariness. She waited until the paladins and priests were at their evening devotions. Then she sneaked through the courtyard and back into the keep. Khelben had bid her look for a tower outside the main fortress. That old tunnel was her best way in. She took a torch from the upper level, as Laharin had done, and made her way to the low wooden portal.

Breaking the rusted lock was easy. Three sharp taps with the hilt of her knife, and the old chain fell away. Bronwyn crept through, one hand sweeping the air before her to tear away the tangle of spider webs that curtained the place like mist. The floor was alive, too; beetles and worse crunched underfoot as she made her way through.

The tunnel seemed to rise as she walked. To her surprise, the passage ended with a solid stone wall. Refusing to give in to discouragement, she lay one hand on the stone. A tingling sensation ran up her arm, and a sweet, wordless summons beckoned her in.

Bronwyn snatched her hand back, startled. Beset by a sudden sense of urgency, she again flattened her palm on the stone of the keep and again felt the compelling invitation. She followed her impulse before she could understand it and stepped through the stone wall into the keep. The passage through the solid stone sent an odd, tingling sensation through her entire body and left her feeling strangely chilled.

She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and took a look around. The interior was larger than it looked from the outside, dimly lit by candles thrust into wall sconces. The flickering light revealed stone walls festooned by cobweb drapery and a ceiling that vaulted up farther than her eye could follow.

"Welcome, daughter of Samular," intoned a faint, rusty voice.

Bronwyn whirled, startled by the unearthly sound, and found herself looking straight into glowing red eyes, set into a skeletal face.

She swallowed a scream and fell back. At second glance, she understood what manner of being she faced. Ancient, rusty robes hung in tatters about the lank form. Where flesh once had been, there was only bone wrapped in papery gray. Lank strings of white hair straggled out from beneath the cowl of a once-white cape. Yet there was life, of a sort, in those glowing red eyes. This was a lich, an undead wizard, and one of the most feared and powerful beings known.

The creature advanced. "Daughter of Samular," it repeated. "You have little need to fear me. I have waited long for this day and for one such as you. The Fenrisbane-its time has come? You have come for it, and for the third ring?"

Because it seemed the thing to do, and because she was not certain her voice would serve her, Bronwyn nodded.

The lich darted forward with a skittering rattle. It seized Bronwyn's arms with bony fingers, and tears of dust and mold leaked from its glowing eyes. "At last you have come! The wonders we will know, and the glory! Wait here."

Bronwyn was released so abruptly that she almost fell. She rubbed her arms where the lich's touch had chilled her. She watched, bemused, as the creature hobbled up the stairs that wound around the inside wall of the tower. Several minutes dragged by, and she was considering attempting a retreat when the lich reappeared, a small box in its skeletal hand. "The third ring," it said reverently, and handed her the box.

Bronwyn opened it and slipped the ring onto her left hand as her father had done. As with the other, this one magically sized itself to her finger.

"What of the Fenrisbane?" she asked, remembering the name the lich had spoken, and assuming that this was the much-sought artifact.

"It is not here, of course. I had the siege engine hidden away for safe keeping years ago, much as one would hide a tree in a forest," the lich said slyly. "It is in the attic of a toy and curiosity shop, in a remote town not too far from the monastery."

Siege engine. In a toy shop. Bronwyn was beginning to understand what part the rings might have in this. "Why did you do this?" she asked. "I would think the Fenrisbane would be safer here."

A bony finger waggled in admonition. "There is danger in having the rings and the tower in the same place. The four artifacts should be reunited only when there is a force gathered sufficient to use and to protect the artifacts." The lich paused, tilted his head, and leaned forward in a menacing gesture. "You don't have the other rings with you, do you?"

"I know where they are, but I do not have them with me," she assured the lich. "One is in the hands of another child of Sainular's blood, a child who is protected by powerful magic. If threatened, she can magically flee within strong walls."

Some instinct prompted her not to mention Blackstaff Tower.

"Good. That is good. Your forebears have prepared you to wield the Fenrisbane in Samular's name?"

There was a cunning note in the dry tone that Bronwyn mistrusted. The lich obviously sensed her heritage- perhaps this was a test of her knowledge and worthiness. She answered as truthfully as she could. "My father gave me the ring just before he died in an attack on his fortress. He would want me to use the Fenrisbane to right this wrong."

The lich nodded avidly, shedding flakes of ancient skin in the process. "Good, good. You have two children of the bloodline, two who are agreed in how to use the rings. That is a needed thing-one person alone cannot fully awaken the Fenrisbane's magic. Go now, and do."

Bronwyn was only too glad to obey, but at the wall, she turned back. "The toy shop."

"Gladestone," the lich said impatiently. "An old town of elves with long lives and longer memories. Seek out Tintario or his heirs. There is a dweomer on these elves and their shop. They will never sell the Fenrisbane or close the shop. If the need to protect it arises, they will do so or die. See that you do likewise."

She had one more question, one that she feared to ask. "Who are you? Or, if you prefer, who were you?"

The lich hesitated. Bronwyn got the impression that it was more saddened than aggrieved by this impertinence. "I no longer recall the name I once wore. What I was is lost. What I am now is the Guardian of the Order." A dry, heavy sound wheezed from the lich, one that might have been a sigh had it come from a living throat. "This puts me in a paradoxical position. Paladins cannot abide undead and would destroy me on sight. For good or ill, few of the paladins and priests in yonder fortress knows who or what inhabits this ancient tower. They simply иonsider it a holy place and are restrained by their order's edict from disturbing it."

The lich shook itself, staving off despair as it must have done many times in its long years of undeath. "But now you have come. I entrust the third ring and the Fenrisbane into your care. This I do because you are of the bloodline of Samular, and because I cannot give these things to the paladins for whom they were intended." The creature darted forward with startling speed and loomed threateningly over Bronwyn.

One bony hand parted the robe. A small black bat flew out from the empty ribcage. The lich paid it no heed, but slipped a tiny scrying globe from an inside pocket of the robe and showed it to her. "I will know what you do," he said. "Fail, and I will seek you out."

Cara and Ebenezer spent a pleasant day on the hillside. He taught her to spit for distance and how to hold a knife for whittling. She took to both with gusto and soon had a pile of wood shavings around her feet. Wood chips and toothpicks, the dwarf observed, pretty much average for a first-time whittler.

The girl pestered him for stories, as she had on the ship. Ebenezer had used up most of his best tales, but he didn't mind telling the second-rate ones. They didn't tell bad, once he added a bit of gloss and color. While he talked, he whittled away at a toy for her. An orc, she wanted, just like the ones in his stories.

Orcs were much on Ebenezer's mind. He knew the signs better than he liked. The scuffling big-footed prints, scat that showed small game eaten raw and whole, and the fetid, musty smell that emanated from some of the hidden caves. There would be trouble, of that he was certain. Orcs always meant trouble.

But trouble, when it came, took a very different form. Cara's soft, sharp intake of breath startled him. She seized his wrist and pointed. "There! See that white horse coming along with the gray dappled? That's the man who stole me from my farm and chased me in the city."

Ebenezer strained and squinted, but his eyes weren't made for distance in the same way the sharp-sighted child's were. He couldn't make out the man, but oh, he knew that horse!

"More paladins," he muttered. "And heading to the keep." He didn't like this, not one little bit. His every instinct told him this put Bronwyn in a bad way. But how could he warn her?

Cara whistled sharply. A few feet away, Shopscat was tearing at the bones left from their breakfast of roast rabbit. The raven looked up at the sound and flew to the child's shoulder. "We could send Shopscat to warn her," she suggested.

Ebenezer pursed his lips and considered. "He'd know how?"

"He can fly. He can find her and bring her a message," she said confidently. She suddenly bit her lip in consternation. "I don't write very well yet. Can you write the note?"

He could, but not in Common. The sign on Bronwyn's shop bore Dethek runes along with Common lettering and curling, sissy Elvish script. Ebenezer hoped she hadn't needed to hire a dwarf scribe to write the Dethek for her. He took the stump end of charcoal pencil Cara handed him and scribbled a few runes on a scrap of parchment. "Guess it's time to see if that dwarf what she boasted of taught her anything useful," he muttered as he wrote the message.

The sunset colors were fading as Sir Gareth and Algorind rode swiftly toward Summit Hall. They hailed the watch towers as they came so that they need not slow to wait for the gates. They swept in through the wooden doors and bore down upon the startled group emerging from chapel.

"Where is the wench?" demanded Sir Gareth as he slid down from his horse.

Master Laharmn strode forward, his yellow brows drawn down in a scowl. "Courtesy is a rule of this Order, brother. The only woman in this fortress is an honored guest."

The rebuke was a harsh one to a man of his station, but Gareth didn't seem to take notice.

"She is a traitor and a thief. Lord Piergeiron of Waterdeep told us she was bound here. Find her!"

Such was the knight's urgency that most of the paladins obeyed at once. Algorind dismounted to join in. Before he took a dozen steps, Yves, a young man perhaps a year behind A.lgorind in training, came running back to the courtyard. "The chain on the tower tunnel has been disturbed!"

Algorind had never seen such unbridled rage on a paladin's face as Sir Gareth wore. The knight quickly mastered himself and turned to a suddenly pale Laharin. "You see? This woman has made fools of you."

It seemed to Algorind that the knight took an unseemly relish in delivering this news.

"This woman was at Thornhold when it fell," continued Gareth. "Did it not occur to you to ask how a single woman walked out unscathed?"

"She is Hronulf's daughter," Laharin stated simply. "She told me that she met with Hronulf and that he showed her a secret tunnel whereby she might escape."

"Did she also say that Hronulf had given her his ring? Did she mention that the lost child of Samular is in her keeping, held in the fastness of Blackstaff Tower?"

Laharin paled as the enormity of the situation hit him. "She did not."

"And she has been to the old tower," Sir Gareth concluded grimly.

Although Algorind did not know what that signified, Laharin clearly did. The' master paladin was fairly wringing his hands. "It seems likely. By the Hammer of Tyr! The three rings will again unite."

Sir Gareth turned to Algorind. "Find her. Take another man with you. Do what you must, but retrieve the rings of Samular."

The utter coldness of the knight's voice chilled Algorind, but he could not fault Sir Gareth's reasoning or question the duty ahead. He whistled for his horse and beckoned for Corwin, a comrade of about his own age, to follow.

The two young paladins struck out for the tower. Algorind assumed that if Bronwyn had left by some hidden door, she could not be far. They would pick up the trail.

Twilight was deepening swiftly toward night when Algorind saw the first tracks-prints made by small, worn boots. There was a single set, and they ran behind a rocky hillock.

He swung down from his horse and knelt for a better look. The woman was small, and these prints looked a little big to be hers, but not so big that a match was impossible. For safe measure, he drew his sword and motioned for Corwin to do the same. Together, they rushed the hillock.

No woman awaited them there, but a small band of orcs did-scrawny, hideous creatures, with their piggish red eyes and jutting canine fangs. This band was armed with nothing but evil grins and bone knives. Most were naked, or nearly so, and only one greenish-hued female had a pair of boots. She must have left the deceitful tracks. This, then, was an ambush.

These creatures were smaller than any Algorind had seen, and younger. The female wore nothing but her ragged boots and a small leather loincloth, and her small young breasts rode high against her clearly delineated ribs. Likely she was not yet of breeding age, and some of the males looked younger still. But they were orcs. The paladins charged as one.

The ambushers lacked the courage for honest battle. When it was clear that the fight would not be easy, most of them shrieked and tried to flee. Algorind cut down one orc who charged him with a knife, then gutted a second with his returning stroke. He lunged forward and high, cutting deeply between the ribs of the coward trying to scramble up and over the rocks.

The survivors scattered and fled. The boot-shod orc had the wit to try to steal a horse. She hauled herself onto Corwin's black steed and frantically kicked the horse into a run, but she did not reckon with a paladin-trained mount. As the horse cantered past, Corwin gave a sharp whistle. Instantly the black horse reared, pawing the air. The orc rolled backward and fell heavily onto the rocky ground. Corwin was there in a moment, his sword at her throat. The little orc wench managed to spit at him before she died.

Algorind leaped onto Icewind's back and called for Corwin to follow. Working together, they managed to slay all but two, and even those did not escape unscathed. The two surviving orcs were wounded and promptly left their companions to slink away and lose themselves among the rocks and shadows.

"That is the way with wild animals," Corwin observed when at last they gave up their search. "Even a wounded dog will seek out a small, quiet space to lick his wounds."

Algorind nodded. "Let us find a place to make camp. In the morning, we will surely find the trail. If Tyr is willing, we will find Bronwyn before the sun sets again."

Bronwyn stepped through the tower wall and collapsed onto the ground. Never had she felt so chilled, so drained of life, so utterly despairing. Dimly she noted that the terrain looked different and that the walls of Summit Hall were not where she expected them to be. Later, she would think about that. She pillowed her cheek on the rocky ground and let the darkness claim her.

When Bronwyn awoke, twilight had nearly passed, and the sky's silver was tarnished with the coming of darkness. A sudden flutter seized and focused her groggy thoughts. Shopscat landed beside her, batting his wings and cawing furiously.

Bronwyn groaned and turned her head so that she was face down. The raven's raucous voice made her temples throb. "Think about it," she pleaded with him.

The familiar thunder of Ebenezer's iron-shod boots came rumbling toward her. The dwarf picked up her head by her braid and scrutinized her face.

"Thought you forgot how to read, woman. Where in the Nine Hells were you-an ice cave? You're blue as a Moon elf!"

Bronwyn rolled up into a sitting position, hugging her knees and shivering uncontrollably. "A lich. Gods, I'm cold. I didn't realize how cold until I got away."

"Fear's a good thing," the dwarf commented. "Keeps you going. And speaking of going, we'd best keep on. Can you stand?"

She let him haul her up and after a few trembling steps, her legs held her well enough. She listened as Ebenezer told her about the paladins' arrival, and how Cara's idea enabled them to find her. In turn, she told him what the lich had revealed.

"We're going to Gladestone," she told him, "a village perhaps two hours' ride north of here. It's a small community of elves and half-"

"Stones!" the dwarf spat. "An elf village. Never thought the day would come when I'd be heading to one on purpose. And what's this thing that we're looking for?"

"A toy siege engine. I'll explain later." She cast a glance over her shoulder. "We'd better move. If that paladin was following me before, odds are he's still at it."

They rode by the light of the rising moon, keeping a cautious look out for paladins and orcs. Before long Cara started nodding off, and Bronwyn was riding with one arm wrapped around the girl to hold her in place. By the time they got to Gladestone, Cara was not the only one sleeping. Most of the houses and shops were dark.

The village was small, a cluster of homes and shops arranged along two narrow streets and some connecting alleys. It was a homey enough scene, and a place that Bronwyn had enjoyed the time or two she had passed through. Most of the houses were low and small, cozily thatched with straw. A stork dozed in a nest built on an unused chimney. The large, outdoor clay oven that baked all the village bread still gave off a pleasant heat and a warm, yeasty aroma. The toy shop was closed, the doors and shutters barred, and the whole guarded by a large and rather hungry-looking dog.

"Might be this should wait until morning," Ebenezer suggested as he eyed the softly growling guardian.